by Joey Ruff
I walked to the back of the castle, sat down on one of the low-hanging swings, and opened Eric’s book. I flipped to the back, one of the later entries, and began to read. I scanned down the page a little with my finger, searching, filtering the lines for the part that I was looking for. I needed to know everything I could on who Dewey was or might be. I had read the part at least ten times already, but I held out hope that there was still something I might have missed.
Sometimes I go down to the counselor’s office at school. I’ll just be sitting in class, and I’ll start crying, muffled, involuntary sobs like a small boat engine, but painfully too human. I can’t help it. But I’m excused. The teachers all know. They don’t know what to do or say, though, you can see it in their eyes, in their awkward stance, their clammy, unwanted beads of sweat.
As I drop woodenly into the old, uncomfortable chair, I sob. “Tim” watches honestly, silently, understanding and patient. He doesn’t let me call him Mr. Thomas. He isn’t a teacher.
“I’m here for you,” he tells me.
I nod, fighting to regain my voice, my composure. I don’t feel judged there, not like in class. He has a warmth that must come from experience.
“You can tell me anything,” he says, and I can, too. He’s like my grandfather. Sitting across from him is like sitting on a cloud in a warm rainshower. His gray hair, his warm eyes, the little quaint office that smells like peppermint and tuna fish. “You know you can trust me, Eric. Anything you tell me stays in this room.”
I sit there for a moment, catching my breath, slowing my uneasiness. “I had a breakdown,” I tell him, “In Mr. Chesterton’s math class.”
“What happened, Eric? What were you feeling?”
“I was just thinking. I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t trying to. It’s just, I could hear Mark Ashton and Becky Saunders talking about some party Friday. Saying something about what Dewey did…”
“Who’s Dewey?” Tim asks. His voice is warm and inviting.
“I don’t know. At least, I don’t know who they were talking about. I just…” I close my eyes; the lids feel so heavy. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I…” A few minutes go by. My head sits in my hands. If he isn’t uncomfortable, I must be enough for the both of us. I feel his gaze. I feel the weight of every word I haven’t said. I break. I shake. I quiver. I rattle. “I just miss him so bad,” I say, but the words are too muffled for him to understand.
“Who is Dewey?” Tim asks.
“He was Adam’s friend,” I tell him. “He was the one.”
“Dewey?”
I nod.
“Tell me about him, if you want.”
I nod again.
“What did Dewey look like?”
I shake my head. “That’s what the cops always ask. Adam was never good with people. He didn’t have a lot of friends. He was … different. Kids at school called him weird. He said that’s why Dewey liked him. That’s…that’s how they met. Adam played alone in the sand. He was by the old jungle gym, the one with the loose bars…”
I stood from the swing and looked around. Most of the equipment was too new, too shiny to be considered old or have loose bars. Then I saw it, standing on its own, an old metal frame, red paint flaking to reveal the brownish red scabbed metal underneath that stood by a large chain-link fence that marked the edge of the school’s property. The fence was covered with green, leafy vines that snaked their way in and out of the metal grid, climbing from the ground until it ran out of fence to climb, and then spilling back over on itself toward the ground again. Whatever was beyond the fence – mostly trees from what I could tell – was lost beyond the overgrowth.
I walked over to the old frame, jiggled a bar, and it moved freely.
When I looked around, I noticed that between where I stood and the fence, there was a patch of loose earth, more like potting soil than an actual sandbox, but unmistakably what the journal referred to, as all else around was grass and rock.
I stooped in the sand, brushing my hand through the mounds that had been piled around like abandoned adobe huts on some ancient Indian dig site. I needed something to flash on, I couldn’t use the dirt. But a moment’s more digging and I had what I needed.
Buried halfway in the largest mound, sticking out of the side, rifle in the air, was a green plastic army man. By the look of it, he’d been there a while, and coffee-ground black dirt was caked heavily in clumps around his base. I scraped it off as best I could, slipped off a glove, and held the little bugger in my closed fist.
It felt like grabbing a live, low-voltage electrical wire. All the hair on my body stood on end, as the subtle fuss buzzed in my eyes and my ears began to ring. Then the warmth of the sun that managed to penetrate the cracks of the tree overhead faded into a stark chill.
I could feel my body rigid, posed, and something in my hand – the rifle. I couldn’t turn my head, but before me were scores of army men, and just inside the limit of my vision, were the hands of God, smooth and hairless and big.
I caught only glimpses of the hands as they moved in and out of my vision, moving up and down, fingers raking at the ground beneath me like a team of living backhoes. I willed myself to turn, to be able to see where the hands went when they moved from view, but I couldn’t move or yell or run any more than a dog could masturbate. I was stuck.
I could hear what sounded like sniffling, but echoed, louder, as if someone sick was breathing into a bullhorn. I watched the hands grab fistfuls of dirt, and slam them together against a mountain that I could only see from the corner of my eye. I heard a thundering voice say, “the castle is finished,” and then, without warning, I was swept into the air.
It wasn’t long before I felt the ground under my feet again. From the change of viewpoint, the hands had placed me atop the mountain, and I found myself wondering if that’s how the real God had done it in the beginning, forming the mountains and valleys like a child with a bucket on the beach. I could see below me, the legions of soldiers that stood in awe of the spire and appeared to be waiting for my commands. I felt like Moses, about to deliver the Ten Commandments, except instead of clay tablets I had a green plastic rifle.
I knew what was happening, because I read it in Eric’s journal. Knew the hands belonged to Adam.
Though his voice sounded giant and overwhelming to the ears of an army man, Adam was still just a child, and the shrill cry of his voice came like a tornado siren. “All soldiers into the castle, the beast is coming!”
He formed his hands like a bulldozer and pushed the green men forward, most of them toppling carelessly, rolling in the dirt that was swept along with them.
Although I didn’t see anyone else, I suddenly felt another presence. Adam felt it to, and he grew quiet, moving more slowly, if at all. I half-expected to see one of his class mates fall on top of him with pummeling fists and freckles and youthful rage. But the voice that followed was anything but the voice of a first-grader.
“What are you building?” It was a deep, friendly tone, and it could have come from the sky or the ground itself as from another person.
“A castle,” Adam said. “To protect the army men from the dragons.”
“I don’t see any dragons around here.”
“They’re coming,” was all Adam said in response. He was still busy with the soldiers, trying faster than ever to get them inside where they’d be safe.
“Do you like dragons?”
Adam had the men around the base of the castle, piled on top of each other, and he began to grab fistfuls of dirt, dumping them atop the soldiers and burying them in some underground chamber.
“I know some dragons.”
Adam stopped, looked up from the castle and peered around cautiously. He’d been shaping the towers, padding the walls, but his hands froze in place.
“You don’t know any dragons.”
“Of course, I do.” The voice was so smooth it sounded almost inhuman. “Would you like to see a
dragon?”
“There aren’t no dragons anymore,” Adam said.
“But there are. You just need to know where to find them. If you come with me, Adam, I’ll show you.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I’ve been watching you.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you, Adam. You’re special.”
I saw a smile spread faintly across Adam’s face. I hadn’t seen him smile before. It occurred to me that it probably didn’t happen often. I’d read Eric’s journal so many times, this part of it specifically, looking for clues, and I was surprised by how accurate the wording was.
As the flash faded and I found myself back in the present, standing over the dirt mounds and squeezing the army man, I heard Eric’s voice echo in my head, the words I’d read so often from his journal.
“He was talking to him from behind the fence,” I tell Tim.
“So he didn’t even see him?” Tim asks. “But what did he say?”
“Dewey said he knew where they lived,” I tell him. “It’s what Adam said. He didn’t tell me anymore.”
“When did he tell you this story?”
“After dinner one night. Mother came to me with a picture he had drawn.”
“Of a dragon…?” Tim says.
“Yeah. But not like the others. It was scarier.”
There was a moment’s pause, and Tim says, “Eric? What did Adam say about the dragon?”
“He said it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.”
The school bell rang-out like an air raid siren. I had minutes, seconds maybe, before I was bombarded. I stood, brushed myself off, tucked the journal under my arm, and strode across the grass to the school building.
I couldn’t help but smile to myself. I had confirmed that Dewey wasn’t only in Adam’s head. If he really was imaginary, he was imaginary to a tiny, unthinking army man, as well. Of course, I suspected as much already. But at least I knew what I was dealing with was corporeal, solid. Whatever Dewey was, I could shower him with Grace.
But more importantly, I discovered what Dewey gave to Adam. Eric had even mentioned it, but it hadn’t occurred to me before. It was so obvious, but only after I knew what I was looking for, knew how badly Adam had craved it.
Dewey gave Adam friendship.
I’d gotten what I needed from Adam Gables for the moment. I knew my only hope in finding him would be to find Dewey. Eric said only Adam had seen Dewey, but as far as I could tell, there was at least one other to make contact with him: Clint Johnson, the boy Adam said Dewey attacked.
I just had to figure out a way to get him to talk to me.
15
When I walked back into the office, the first thing I noticed was that the basset-hound receptionist was not there. In her place was a woman significantly younger. I would have guessed her to be in her early forties or so. She wore her long black hair up in a ponytail, and from the Looney Tune scrubs she wore, I guessed her to be the school nurse.
She looked up at me as I entered and eyed me strangely, considered me a moment and said, “Can I help you?”
I thought about the various ways I could address that question. She wasn’t exactly what I would call pretty, but she wasn’t quite ugly, either. The scrubs were baggy, but nothing struggled at the fringes or fit tightly anywhere. She was moderately attractive and she was dressed in a uniform. I’m not entirely sure why, but I considered playing doctor with her.
“Can I help you?” she asked again, more annoyed this time.
“I’m Jonothan Swyftt.”
“And you’re here to read Gulliver’s Travels to the kids?” She was bitter and mean. It turned me on a little. I couldn’t help wondering if she tasted as sour as she looked.
Despite her attempt at rude non-humor, I smiled at her. Momma always said it was the best way to get what you wanted. “I’m a private investigator. I’ve been hired to look in on a disappearance. I was wondering if you could arrange a meeting for me with a student.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure something like that is allowed.”
“I understand you have policies and that, but this boy may have information necessary for the case.”
“I need to see some ID.”
I showed it to her.
She had been tapping a pencil nervously against the desk. She stopped tapping, looked at the computer screen next to her for a moment, and she said, “What’s the boy’s name?”
“Clint Johnson.”
Her eyes grew a little wider as surprise stole over her face, but then she blinked a couple of times and regained her composure. “He would be on lunch right now,” she said, standing.
“I’m aware of that. I was hoping to not take any class time.”
She thought about that a moment. As she walked me over to an open doorway, she said, “You can wait in here. Can I get you anything to drink while you wait? It might take a few minutes. It’ll be best he eats first.”
“I’m fine.”
“You can have a seat. We’ll do what we can to accommodate you.” Then she closed the door.
The room in which she put me was a small conference room, bare white walls except for the dry erase board and clock hanging on one of them. The center of the room held a small rectangular table and six chairs. There was nothing else in the room but the potted plant in the corner – something with large green leaves – and that looked fake.
I took a seat, feeling like I was in an interrogation room at a police station, and watched the clock with a yawn of boredom. Twenty minutes passed. I thought to get up, go ask somebody. Maybe the nurse was still out there. Surely the kid had eaten at that point.
I kept my chair only because I thought the other receptionist would be back and didn’t want to spend another forty minutes while she tried to find Clint Johnson. So I waited. Thirty minutes in the room. Still nothing.
After forty-five minutes of sitting, I grew too restless and couldn’t take it anymore. I stood and walked to the door, hearing the murmur of voices from the room beyond. I’d never been the kind of guy to leave things alone. Naturally, it’s why I was in the investigations business. So I cracked the door open and peered out into the other room.
Special Agent Natasha Stone and her partner, What’shisname, of the FBI were talking to the sag of a desk clerk. The way Stone was waving her arms around, she didn’t look happy. I felt bad for the old woman.
I closed the door, wondering what it was the FBI were doing at an Elementary school and decided I didn’t care. All I needed to do was let them move along so I could go about my business. I didn’t think it would do any good for her to see me there as well. No doubt, she’d have questions and I’d be further detained. At this point, Nadia was waiting for me in the parking lot, the El Camino idling and Bob Marley jamming on the radio.
I took my seat, decided to wait another five minutes and check the room again, but I didn’t have to wait that long. At two minutes, the door to the little room I’d been imprisoned in opened, and Stone strode in.
I moved to stand, but she held up a hand to stop me. “You can sit.” What’shisname waited outside, and she closed the door. She stood at the opposite end of the table from me, looking down at me with scorn in her eyes.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” She was wearing the same black pantsuit that she had worn the day before, her blonde hair up in the same tight pony tail. I wondered if she ever changed clothes, and then for a second, wondered if maybe she were just a robot and didn’t need to change anything. A very attractive robot with a great arse.
“What do you think you’re doing here, Swyftt?”
I rolled my eyes. It was going to be one of those talks. “I could ask you the same thing,” I said.
“I shouldn’t be here. But Detective Anderson wanted to make sure Clint Johnson wouldn’t be bothered. He has an understanding with the office staff that if anyone asks to speak with the boy, they call him instead. For some reason, the Dete
ctive likes you, and he was just going to let this go, but I was in the area and decided to do him a favor and stop by.”
“Lucky me.” I stood from my chair and moved to the door, but she moved against me, blocking the exit with her body.
“Not so fast,” she said. “You’re not going anywhere until you answer a few questions.”
“I’m kind of in the middle of a case. I don’t really have time to explain this to you. If you just wanna step to the side for me…” I put a hand on her hip to gently nudge her.
“Take that hand off of me before I cuff it.”
“Ooh,” I said with a wicked grin, though I did remove my hand. “That’s a little more like it. Just make it dirty.” I winked at her. She didn’t blink; she didn’t smile, just looked at me in contempt. “Obviously we need to address the elephant in the room before we can move on,” I told her. “Would you like to start with his trunk?”
“You’re really wearing on my patience.”
“Fine. I’ll spell it out. I’m talking about my penis.”
She rolled her eyes. “Can you be serious for a minute?”
“I could, but there’s not much point. My kind of serious, you won’t get.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you come in here acting tough, throwing your weight around, trying to get me to give you some answers, but when I give them to you, you write them off. We both know you’ve never taken a single thing I’ve ever given you seriously.”
“The things you give me, Swyftt, your so-called answers, are tabloid fodder. Bigfoot does not steal neighborhood cats.”
“It was just the one cat, and it was not a bigfoot, it was a Wendigo. There’s a big difference.”
“Whatever. There was also that sewer explosion in Portland…”
“Warlock.”
“…that serial killer last March…”
“A hob. Well, hobgoblin, not that there’s much of a difference where you were concerned.”
“…and what about that sniper in Salt Lake?”
“I told you, he wasn’t actually a threat to humans. He was human, got really drunk, and started picking off Sprites at a Fay festival. I’ll never understand why they insist on having those things by bell towers.”